


The Backpacks

by Wicked42 - Spider-Man (Wicked42)



Series: Wicked's PS4 Spider-Verse [3]
Category: Spider-Man (Video Game 2018), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Definitely whump now awww yeah, F/M, Fluff, MJ is Awesome, Peter is reckless, adorable peter and mj being adorable, game exploration, one for every backpack, oneshots, probably angst for some of them too, probably whump eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-17 11:58:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked42/pseuds/Wicked42%20-%20Spider-Man
Summary: The story behind every weird, random backpack Peter webbed around NYC.A collection of drabbles set in the 2018 video game universe.





	1. The First Date Menu

**Author's Note:**

> OMG A SERIES. 
> 
> I make no promises about how often I'll update these. XD I'm replaying the game, and my sister and I found the backpack with the dinner menu, and my sister was like, "Aww, that's cute," and I was like, "... Why did he TAKE that?" And we just both burst out laughing. 
> 
> And then it became a thing, where we created plots for every single backpack item we've found. So... our weird night is your reward? 
> 
> Some of these will be longer, some shorter, some crack, some serious. I'll try to label appropriately. :P This one's unrelenting fluff, coupled with Awesome MJ, because y'all know I love her.
> 
> IMPORTANT: From here on, I'll be posting all new Spider-Man fics under my new Spider-Man pseud! Just for your ease of access. :) Feel free to follow this account for exclusive content! (... is that how pseuds work? I hope that's how pseuds work...)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter tries to impress MJ with a fancy first date, but fails pretty miserably.

“This is nice,” MJ says, after a long moment of almost awkward silence.

Fiorito Osteria’s is bustling.

The murmur of dinner conversation settles over the restaurant like a blanket, muting the clink of silverware, the footsteps of the wait staff, the occasional bolstering laugh from the businessmen three tables down.

Peter and MJ’s table has been shoved beside the entrance to the kitchen, partially hidden behind a rather robust potted plant. He’s smacked with the swinging door every time a waiter steps through, but it’s Friday night in downtown New York, and they’re two unimpressive college kids, so _apparently_ they should be proud they secured a table at all.

Especially considering it’s the third restaurant of the night.

“Sure. Nice,” Peter says sullenly, tapping the leather-bound menu their lackluster waiter forgot to collect after taking their orders. Or delivering their food.

(Which was cold, by the way.)

MJ squints at him, but apparently decides not to comment on it. She’s in her fanciest gown, a crimson, floor-length dress she bought “just in case” her editor invited her to the Daily Bugle’s yearly Christmas party, even though she’s just an intern and that ball is to recognize “real reporters.”

Peter’s pretty darn sure she _is_ a real reporter, but it’s like saying he’s a real scientist. Which is to say, not quite true… yet.

Still, the gown was a splurge, and he knows she feels guilty about it. Which is ridiculous, because she looks _amazing_. The red color almost perfectly matches her hair, and it makes her face positively glow in contrast. But it’s her eyes Peter can’t stop staring at—the sharp brown that reminds him of smoldering coals, deep and lovely and dangerous.

Which is why he’s a little miffed they were laughed out of his first restaurant choice.

And scoffed out of the second.

His face burns at the reminder, and he stabs at an undercooked meatball on his plate. Stupid, undercooked, overpriced meatball. Stupid third-tier restaurant.

MJ raises an eyebrow and points a fork at him. “Oh my god, Pete. Stop thinking about it. You’re driving yourself crazy.”

“It was embarrassing,” he mutters, somewhat petulantly.

MJ snickers. “I mean, we’re not exactly Tony Stark. What did you expect?”

Her attempt to lighten the mood only makes him more sour. Mostly because it implies he jumped into this night, their _first official, romantic date_ , blindly. He didn’t, by the way. He planned out every meticulous detail… except claiming a reservation.

Which apparently is a pretty important step.

“And don’t take this the wrong way, because you know I love you,” – _not like that, not like that_ , Pete thinks, since MJ throws that word around far too often and it’s starting to hold more weight than it used to—“but… how the hell were you going to afford that place anyway?”

“I been saving!” Peter straightens in his chair, indignant.

“Not saying you haven’t, Tiger.” MJ raises her hands. That coy smirk tilts her lips, the one that silently says _you’re being stupid, but cute_ , and Peter’s ears start to burn too. “Lemme rephrase. Why would you _want_ to spend all your hard-earned money on one dinner? It’s not like we’re rolling in it.”

They aren’t. Both of them have scholarships, but—college is full of fun, surprise costs. And even though she’s right, even though dropping two hundred (or more) on dinner makes his heart clench and his wallet scream, he still wanted to do it.

He nudges the meatball with his fork, staring at the chip on the side of his plate. His words are barely audible. “I just… You deserve it, MJ. You deserve everything this city has to offer, and I wanted to give it to you.”

Silence.

His eyes flick up, afraid that maybe she’s—well, mad, or something. Maybe she doesn’t like him assuming. Maybe she decided the embarrassment of the evening was too much, and stormed out while he played with his food.

But of course she hasn’t. She’s still sitting across the table, makeup glowing, hair perfectly styled, dress stunning. Except now her mouth has dropped open, and a delicate blush is spreading across her cheeks.

Peter can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen her blush.

“Shit, Parker,” she whispers.

He laughs, nervously. “Too much?”

“Never,” she replies, and leans across the table, fingers hooking around his tie as her lips crash against his.

His mind goes blank, blissfully numb, as warmth blooms in his chest. Which is why he doesn’t notice the tipping glass of sparkling cider until it spills all over their tablecloth and the waiter is suddenly upon them.

“ _Sacr_ _é bleu,_ if you wanted privacy, there’s an alley around back,” the older man seethes, his voice as pinched as his expression.

MJ spins towards him, fast as a striking snake. “Come on, asshole. That accent is as fake as the leather on these menus.”

Peter swears he has whiplash. He’s still blinking away the daze, but it’s too late to do damage control anyway.

And honestly, tonight, he’s not sure he wants to.

The waiter splutters, face growing red for a totally different reason. “W-Well! You two have outstayed your welcome. Pay your bill and _leave_.”

“Pay for what? This food was nearly inedible. And don’t think I haven’t heard the _microwaves_ in the kitchen, every time my boyfriend was buffeted by that door.” MJ jerks a thumb at the swinging kitchen door, seemingly unaware the rest of the restaurant has fallen silent.

Peter thinks maybe he should intervene, or—or agree—or maybe argue—God, he has no idea what he’s supposed to be doing—but MJ clearly doesn’t need his help anyway. She smirks at the waiter's gaping expression and says, “Yeah, didn't think so. Go on. Fetch a manager. We’ll wait.”

The waiter growls something about fetching the police instead, and storms into the kitchen.

Peter swallows hard. “Ah, what—what just—”

“I bet we have maybe two minutes before he’s back. Now’s our chance,” MJ says, grinning widely as she grabs Peter’s arm. “Come on, let’s go!”

“What about the bill—?” Peter asks, confounded.

“Forget it,” she laughs. “Welcome to New York.” And she strides for the door, red dress swaying like a peacock’s tail.

Peter still throws down a twenty, because he can’t… _not._ But when his eyes rake over the table to ensure they’re not leaving anything behind—since they sure as hell aren’t coming back here again—he sees the forgotten menu.

MJ’s right. It _is_ fake leather.

In an impulsive fit of righteous anger, he steals it, tucking it under his too-big dinner jacket.

Outside and around the block, MJ doubles over, laughing so hard tears streak down her face. She shoves his shoulder and says, “Shit, Parker. You sure know how to show a lady a good time.”

“I don’t think _that_ was a good time,” Peter says, shakily, but he’s laughing too.

“Oh, come on. And don’t think I didn’t see you throw down that money.” She rolls her eyes, wiping her cheek with her palm. It smears her fancy makeup. She looks ridiculously out of place on the thin, grimy sidewalk, surrounded by typical Friday night tourists. “Why’d I have to fall for the _only_ nice New Yorker? What a disgrace.”

His heart literally skips a beat, before he can remind himself:  _not what she meant, not what she meant_. Even chanting it afterwards doesn’t change the fact that she said it, or that this feels like a scene in a movie, all bright lights and blurred surroundings and for once he doesn't need superpowers to see every detail of this one, amazing woman.  

But she's waiting for a response, so he splutters, “Hey! I wasn’t so nice. I stole one of their menus!” And he whips it out like a prize.

MJ laughs even harder, fresh tears spilling from those gorgeous brown eyes. “Oh my god, Pete, you can’t _take_ those!”

“They had it coming. And I needed a souvenir of how epically you schooled that waiter.”

MJ snorts, plucking the menu from his hands to examine it. “Look at you, Tiger. You know, I love the hero gig, but—I’m kind of into the bad boys.” She winks, tucks the menu under her arm, then presses into his side. His cheeks are probably as red as her hair, now, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes are already settling on a food stand down the street. “Come on, let’s go get a good, old-fashioned hot dog.”

Peter grins. “Now that’s my kind of date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently you can find this restaurant in the game, and it's boarded up? So I feel no shame in making it terrible for them. Must have closed somehow. :P 
> 
> PS: I also have no idea what Iron Man's relation to video-game Peter Parker is, but I LOVE IronDad, so probably that will come up later. Just not here. XD 
> 
> PSS: SHOUT-OUT TO ALLLLLL THE AMAZING REVIEWERS IN THIS FANDOM. You guys fucking blow me away, and I SO SO SO appreciate every single comment!! I get so stupid excited when I see them in my email. Makes me want to create ALL THE CONTENT FOR YOU. <3 <3 <3 You rock, never stop.


	2. The Selfie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter scales the Empire State Building, but fears aren't conquered alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my mind, this takes place a few months after the spider bite, so Pete and MJ would still be in high school. The suit in the selfie pic causes timeline problems for me, since it's obviously the BRAND NEW ONE Otto suggests. But he said the backpacks were webbed up years ago, so like, how....
> 
> I dunno. Henceforth, I'm ignoring the suit and that implication and planting this firmly in the Teenage Parker years.

_Come on. Come on, Parker…_

Peter’s hands are shaking. Actually, his whole body is shaking, every muscle wound tighter than the springs in his web shooters. He’d pretend it’s from exertion, but—well, not much exerts him these days. Even scaling the tallest building in New York City was akin to a casual stroll through Central Park.

No, it’s fear, hot and sticky, that’s causing him to shake. Sweat trickles in creeping drops down his neck, his temples, his back. He keeps blinking, as if this is some kind of self-induced nightmare. His mouth is drier than MJ’s sense of humor, for God’s sake, and that’s _saying_ something.  

And still, he’s up here, climbing the Empire State Building.

Willingly.

The first fifty stories were a cake walk. The second fifty took a bit of mental preparation, but nothing _Spider-Man_ can’t handle. Then came the observation deck. The metal railings on top of the observation deck. Then… the lightning rod.

Peter’s clung to the roof of the observation deck far longer than he cares to admit, working up the courage to wrap his hands around the base of the antennae.

It’s harder than he expected.

“C-Come on, Pete. This is stupid. You scale telephone poles for fun. That—that’s all this is. A really big, really h-high telephone pole.”

He gulps, pointedly staring at the gray metal just inches in front of him. A few feet of concrete below, tourists are snapping photos of the encroaching twilight. The sunset was spectacular, but Peter barely got to see it past the sweat dripping over his eyes.

_Mental note: install sweatband._

Maybe he should go do that right now. Not like the Empire State Building is going anywhere. And—and there was rain in the forecast tonight. Maybe it’s just smart self-preservation, not climbing the _lightning rod_ before a storm.

Peter groans, gritting his teeth. “Come on, Parker. Shit. You’re _Spider-Man_.”

Spider-Man, New York’s newest hero, the guy who’s made a name for himself slinging between skyrises. Who webs criminals to ceilings. Who plucks cats out of the highest trees in Central Park.

The great and amazing Spider-Man… afraid of heights.

Peter’s face burns. He presses his forehead to the antennae’s hard metal surface and mutters, darkly, “I bet _Iron Man_ isn’t afraid of flying.”

Only the wind answers him.

This is ridiculous. He should be able to do this alone, but his ultimate goal—a selfie on the top of the antennae at sunset—failed an hour ago. The city’s well into twilight now, darkness settling over him like a blanket.

Fear settling like a blanket.

Choking him.

Stifling.

A shudder wracks through him as he thinks of the view behind him, the antennae above. What kind of New Yorker can’t appreciate the city skyline? God, he’s a disgrace to the name of Queens.

His phone trills, rerouting automatically to the Bluetooth headset he just installed inside the mask. The reception up here is sketchy at best, but he taps his ear, accepts the call with mild desperation.

“H-Hello?”

“Quick, who revived computational neuroscience?”

Peter’s never been happier to hear MJ’s voice. He relaxes for the first time in hours, although his fingers don’t move off the antennae. “Uh… Are you t-talking about David Marr? He brought interest back to the topic. But there are a lot of neuroscientists who contributed to the field—”

“What’s going on with you?” MJ interrupts.

Peter’s mind slams back into the present, and he flinches. “W-What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re stuttering. Are you out doing the Spider-Man thing right now?”

“Kind of?”

MJ’s voice is no-nonsense. “Peter. You promised you’d _call me_ when you go patrolling. How the hell else am I supposed to find you when you get shot again, or—or beaten to a pulp by Fisk?”

He winces now. “Fisk didn’t ‘beat me to a pulp.’ He just got lucky a few… dozen… times.”

“Pete.”

“I’m not _technically_ patrolling,” he says.

“Then where are you?”

Peter tilts his gaze up, up, up, to where the tip of the antennae vanishes against the black of the sky. The sweat has dampened his suit enough that when the wind blows again, it chills him to the bone. He shivers and says, “U-Um… I’m at the Empire State Building.”

MJ laughs, a bolstering sound that makes Peter feel smaller in his defeat. “Sorry, Pete, you cut out there. I thought you said you were at the—”

“Empire State Building,” he repeats.

She goes silent for a moment, then says, incredulously, “Wait, seriously? You? The same guy who faked a fever so Aunt May would keep you home from our fourth grade _class field trip_ , just so they wouldn’t force you into an elevator and press you against a window a hundred stories up?”

The reminder is not helping. Peter feels faint, his heart pounding in his chest. He might as well not even be wearing the suit right now, for all he’s acting like Spider-Man.

“Yeah,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “E-Except I’m kind of on top of it now.”

“On top of—Shit, Parker. You’re not joking, are you?”

“Can we talk neuroscience again?” Peter asks, with an obvious note of desperation.

But MJ doesn’t seem to be hearing him. “ _Why_ are you up there, Pete? If you fall, you could be—”

“I know!” Peter yelps. Silence reigns, and he inches away from the roof’s edge, feeling seconds from a full-on panic attack. He used to need an inhaler, but since the spider bite, it’s sat forgotten in his backpack. Already, he’s regretting it, because he swears he’s high enough that the oxygen is a bit thinner.

Too thin.

There isn’t enough air—

“Deep breaths, Pete,” MJ says, forcefully.

He gasps on her command, a ragged, shuddering sound.

“Okay. Good. In, out. Can you—god, I don’t know. Can you climb down? I mean, you stick to walls now, right? You must have gotten up there somehow.”

“I can’t c-climb down.”

MJ’s tone remains level, almost placating. “Okay. Don’t freak out. Take another breath for me. There must be a maintenance hatch to get you inside the building. Then you can just take the elevator down. Or the stairs! You like stairs.”

“It’s not t-that I _can’t_ climb down,” he forces out, exasperated and beyond frustrated. “I can. Just—I need to climb _up_ first.”

“Becauuuuse…” MJ trails off.

“Because I’m _Spider-Man_ , MJ!” Peter shouts. “Because I’m supposed to help save people, but how can I do that if I can’t even scale the Empire State Building? I’m supposed to be fearless! I’m supposed to be _good_ at this!”

 His outburst echoes around him, a halo of shame. He hangs his head, gently bumping his forehead against the metal antennae. His fingers have left ten little indents, a physical reminder of how not-okay he is with this plan.

But he _needs_ to be. That’s the point.

MJ drops her voice, low and firm and still somehow soothing. “Pete. Spider-Man didn’t exist before you. You know what that means?”

He’s too miserable to respond, but that’s okay, because apparently it was rhetorical anyway.

“That _means_ that you’re not ‘supposed’ to be doing anything. There are literally no standards for what Spider-Man should be, so beating yourself up over them is ridiculous. You save people all the time. Go ahead. Next time, ask them if _they_ care whether or not you can climb the Empire State Building.”

She’s right. He knows she’s right.

But… “ _I_ care.”

MJ sighs. “Okay, then. You’re just a few feet away, right?”

“T-Two hundred and four, actually,” Peter mumbles.

He can imagine her shrugging, for how casual her tone is. “Easy peasy. We’re gonna do a quiz, and for every question you answer, you climb, okay?”

“I don’t think that’s going to work—”

Her response is rapid-fire: “Question one. What color do you get if you mix all colors on the light spectrum?”

He wracks his brain, and his fingers uncurl from the base of the antennae. “Um, white.”

“How many patents did Thomas Edison file?”

“A thousand ninty… three?” he guesses.

“Good. Keep climbing,” MJ orders, and his body obeys without thinking. Suddenly he’s fifteen feet up the spire, sticking like always, panic ebbing away as he leaves the roof behind. “What’s the strongest known magnet in the universe?”

“A neutron star.”

His mind focuses on the task, and the world melts away. It’s just him, staring at the bright night sky, at his fingers gluing to the pockmarked metal, and MJ, a smile in her voice as she coaches him through his fears.

He’s not sure when it happens, but eventually, his apprehension fades, his panic vanishes, and exhilaration surges from his chest all the way to his toes. He’s a hundred feet away from the top. Now fifty. Twenty. Ten.

And then he’s there, perched somewhere he _never_ thought he’d reach, even before the spider bite. The city sweeps around him, a view so startlingly beautiful that his breath leaves in a gasp.

“Pete? Peter, you okay?” MJ asks, panic tinged in _her_ voice now.

“I’m—I’m okay,” he replies, and revels in the fact that it’s true. A familiar spark of fear stirs in his chest, but he’s _here_ and he’s _fine_ and how could he ever have been scared of such a _view_? “I’m kind of regretting missing that field trip, now.”

MJ snorts. “Why?”

Gratitude stomps out the last of his fear, and his fingers curl around the flat tip of the antennae, inches from his feet. He’s not stupid. Without MJ’s help, he’d never have made it here, and it pains him to appreciate this view without her.

So he replies, earnestly, “Because I’d have loved to see this with you.”

She laughs. “Well, it was also the field trip that restaurant gave us food poisoning, so _trust me_ when I say you didn’t miss much. Now get your butt home so you can help me properly with my essay on neuroscience, because you know I need this extra credit.”

Peter snorts, reaches into his pocket for his cell phone.

His hands aren’t shaking, now.

“Hang on. Just gotta get a selfie first.”

“Showoff.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking requests on which backpack to write next!! I doubt I'll make it through all 55 backpacks before getting bored with this story, so I'd rather cater to the ones y'all want to read! Lemme hear it! :D 
> 
> Marajadechase, you rock, and the next chapter will DEFINITELY have whump. Because I'm absolute trash for that, so you've come to the right author. XD


	3. The Hospital Bill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter winds up at the hospital after a fight goes sideways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP
> 
> *ahem*
> 
> I mean, enjoy the chapter! I gift you with 4100 words today because I luuuurv you.

It’s pretty humiliating, when Peter thinks about it later. Vulture favors the high-speed attacks from the sky, like some two-hundred pound, highly volatile peregrine falcon. Shocker utilizes heart-stopping shockwaves to his punches, which weren’t soft to begin with. And don’t even get Peter started on the literal bulldozing block of metal that makes up Rhino’s suit.

But with all those villains, it’s a petty car thief who knocks Peter out cold.

He’s been Spider-Man for about a year, but apparently that’s not enough time to discern when to step in front of a moving car, and when to leap out of the way. (Hint: unless bystanders are involved, _always jump out of the way_.)

Too late. Even though it’s well past midnight and they’re alone on some road beside the river, even though Peter could have webbed up the Camaro as it sped off, tied it to some light posts or something, he takes the direct approach.

And the car thief spins the wheel at the exact wrong moment.

The vehicle twists, abruptly, violently, and the left headlight plows into Peter. It’s not the hit he expected, the hit he braced for, and the guttural force of it sends him up over the windshield, the sunroof, the trunk. He rolls so fast it’s impossible to tell which way is up, what direction he’s headed, and _oh_ _there’s the ground—_

His breath leaves in a choked cry as stars burst behind his eyes. A loud _snap_ echoes through the night, but if he thought _that_ was piercing, it’s nothing compared to the white-hot flush of pain that follows on its heels. He’s still rolling, though, every spin disorienting him more, until the pavement vanishes and then he’s falling yet again.

The black, grimy water might as well be cement, for how hard as he hits it. Peter gasps at the impact and promptly swallows a mouthful of river water that soaked through his mask. He chokes, panic racing like a live-wire through him, but it’s not enough. Every struggle seems to pull him further underwater. It’s so dark he can’t tell which way is up. His left arm _isn’t moving_ , and soon his other limbs aren’t either.

His mind swims.

His body doesn’t.

No one even knows where he is.

Distantly, Peter thinks about MJ, thinks that even though he called her like always, told her his plans to patrol, he _probably_ should have given her an approximate location. His lungs contract, squeezing for air that isn’t around, and suddenly the mask feels very, very tight. Too tight. God, she’s going to be so mad if he dies here.

And what about Harry? He doesn’t even know the truth about how Peter spends his evenings these days. That regret is more numbing than the pain, than the icy chill of the murky river water. Peter should have told Harry. Is it too late now?

But more than that, Peter should have told Aunt May. Because just a few hours ago she fed him subpar pasta and lectured him about his English homework and when he kissed her cheek before bed, she pulled him into a full-on hug and told him that even though his essay only got a B-, she was proud anyway.

Darkness encroaches. Spider-Man is going to drown, and when they pull the mask off his bloated corpse, no one will recognize the kid underneath. Just MJ and Harry and Aunt May, the three people who mean the world to him, and they’ll be the only ones devastated enough to mourn.

That, more than anything, spurs Peter into motion again. Because god _damn it_ , he promised Uncle Ben he would help whenever he could, even if it hurt. And a real hero wouldn’t drown quietly in the river, alone. A _real_ hero dies in battle, fighting for what’s right.

Peter kicks, feebly, and even though everything is numb and every push upwards feels like he’s kicking the Grim Reaper in the face, it turns out he’s stubborn as hell. And when he finally breaks the surface, rips off his mask with his good arm and gasps and coughs, a tiny flicker of pride settles in his chest.

Not that it matters. He’s going to go under again unless he can get to solid ground. His mind is spinning like a tilt-a-whirl, flashing nauseatingly as he aims a shaking hand towards the concrete barrier some distance away, shoots webbing he hasn’t tested in water yet and prays it’ll stick.

But Uncle Ben must be watching out for him, because it lands true, and with a jerk of his wrist, the webbing retracts and suddenly he’s gripping the wall, and then muscle memory kicks in, because even though it’s only been a year, he’s climbed a _lot_ of walls since then.

His left arm is still utterly useless, but he doesn’t feel the pain anymore. In his dazed state, he can’t decide if that’s good or bad.

He flops onto the dirt barrier between the street and the river, coughing and choking past sewage water. The car thief is long gone, and no one else driving past seems to notice the shaking, thin kid heaving in the shadows.

Somewhere along the way, he blacks out, and the only reason he knows it is because he doesn’t remember face-planting in the wet dirt.

The only blessing here is that it’s late spring, so the sticky New York temperatures warm him up fairly fast. His suit is still damp, though, as he staggers to his feet, using a nearby tree for balance. His phone is waterlogged, useless. Breathing ragged, body trembling against the blinding pain that resurfaced when he did, Peter squints at the dark screen. No luck. It’s going to take some long nights to get that functional again.

He’d use a payphone to call MJ, the only person who might still be awake at this hour, but Aunt May’s hours have been cut at the hospital, so money’s even tighter than usual right now.

With nothing else to do, holding his bad arm as steady as he can, Peter walks home.

 

* * *

 

He makes it back by 4am, sweat pouring down his face despite his feverish shivering. The river water has all-but dried by now, but the _pain_. He’s been hurt before, beaten by Fisk and pounded by Shocker and trampled by Rhino and on and on, but he’s never lost complete control of a limb before.

It hangs at his side as he gingerly pries off the suit, limp. Useless. When he tugs the fabric over his left shoulder, the sharp stab nearly makes him black out again. He sinks onto his mattress, biting his lip so hard it bleeds, and tries to move his hand.

It’s like a distant memory. His fingers twitch, but his shoulder screams and it’s just _not worth it_.

“Come on, spider healing. Help me out here,” he whimpers.

Silence is his response.

It takes another twenty minutes, but he manages to wiggle out of his suit, and before he pulls on a loose t-shirt, he dares to peek at the wound. It’s—pretty gruesome, actually. His whole side is swollen and purple from the car’s loving touch, but his shoulder is nearly disfigured. There’s a bone protruding where it definitely shouldn’t, bulging the skin in way that makes him cringe.

He’s not even sure how to reset that, honestly. Is it just broken, or flat-out pulverized?

“Sleep,” he says, like a desperate, dying man holding onto his last vestige of hope. “Sleep cures all.”

He’s so exhausted, he’s unconscious before he hits the pillow.

 

* * *

 

Someone shakes him awake, jostling the wound in such a spectacular way that he nearly screams, remembering only at the last second that Aunt May would be the person shaking him awake, and _Aunt May_ doesn’t know what he does at night.

She can’t know he’s injured, or he’ll be grounded until he graduates.

So Peter clamps his lips together, digging his fingers into a tight ball as a nauseatingly violent wave of pain washes over him. It doesn’t fade, not really, so he grounds out, “W-What? M’ awake.”

The words are meant to be reassuring, but come out tense and strained.

“About time,” MJ replies.

Oh, thank god. Not Aunt May. Peter cracks open an eye, drawing shallow, shaking breaths as he tries to center his mind, catch up to what’s happening. “MJ? What’re you doin’ in m’room?” His words blur together, kind of like his surroundings. How is it possible that he feels _even worse_ today? That hasn’t happened since… well, since the bite.

But MJ doesn’t respond to his halfhearted question. Instead, her brows furrow, and she mutters, “Jesus, Pete.”

She presses a hand to his forehead, but even Peter can feel his face is hot, too hot, like his body’s in overdrive trying to fix whatever’s broken and somehow still failing miserably. The muscle aches aren’t just in his arm, and his stomach churns at the thought of moving even an inch.

But MJ came all the way here to see him, so she must be worried. Based on the red rimming her eyes, she’s either scared sick or sleep-deprived. And either one could be his fault.

So Peter forces a smile and says, “’S not so bad. Jus—a fracture.”

Her eyes trace over his bare chest—he never did get around to putting on that t-shirt—and settle on the unnatural shape of his left shoulder. She draws in a sharp breath. “What… What happened?”

“Hit by a car,” Peter slurs. “Turns out, ‘s not all the rage.”

Her face visibly pales, but another thought occurs to Peter before she can respond to that. MJ’s in his bedroom… on a school day… and Aunt May is nowhere to be seen. Did she go to work early, or did something happen? Panic swells in his chest, and he tries to sit upright, using his good arm against the pillow.

The pain _screams_ , a banshee in his ears that makes the whole world fade for a solid few seconds.

When he comes to, MJ is carefully gripping his good shoulder, holding him upright, and her freckles are bright against her white skin. Her hands are shaking hard. He’s _scaring her_ , he realizes, too late, but it’s hard to smile and reassure when it feels like a white-hot poker is digging into his flesh.

“W-We need Aunt May,” she says, a tremor in her voice as she fishes for her cell phone.

Then May's fine. Thank god. But without both of her hands propping him up, Peter sways in bed. Panic somehow still edges into the fogginess of pain, a sense of self-preservation that begs him to keep his aunt out of this, keep her oblivious. May has _enough_ to worry about without worrying about him, too.

“No. Not May,” he leans his head against the drywall, drawing deep breaths. It only kind-of works; after vomiting up river water, his lungs and throat feel raw, aching, like he pulled something pretty darn important during his panicked swim.

MJ makes a frustrated sound. “Not May? Shit, Pete, have you _seen_ what you look like?” Her tone is edging on hysterical, now, verbalizing all the panic he’d be feeling if he wasn’t so consumed by pain.

But despite the fact that some vague part of him feels guilty she has to deal with this, now, the rest of him is just glad he’s not facing it alone.

“She can’t s-see me like this. She can’t know what happened,” he begs. MJ opens her mouth to protest, but Peter drops his voice, doesn’t have to fake the desperation. “Please. She can’t know about Spider-Man.”

MJ draws a shaking breath, turning her gaze to the chipped ceiling. They’re long past the point of arguing over whether or not Peter should be pursuing his extracurricular. Long past the point of arguing about the beatings he takes.

But it doesn’t mean she’s going to lie down and let this drop. “Fine. But you need a hospital.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but MJ tightens her grip on his shoulder, narrowing her gaze. “Shut up, Pete. Just—just shut up. Okay? What if this is really serious?”

It feels serious, but so did the beating Fisk gave him with those brass knuckles. So did the broken ribs after Rhino sent him flying into a building. So did his stuttering heart after Shocker upped the voltage of his suit.

Turns out, spiders are pretty damn hardy.

But… the pain is bad. Even though May’s gone now, probably an early shift at work, he won’t be able to smile through this agony when she comes home. Cracked bones usually heal overnight, so the fact that this is still excruciating means it’s something else. Something worse.

Probably, it’ll heal on its own. But he doesn’t want his bones knitting themselves back together wrong. Would he have to re-break his shoulder at that point? Would he lose the use of his arm permanently?

MJ’s gaze is hard, but he’d be blind to miss the fear flickering behind her eyes. He glances at the clock, realizes it’s almost noon, realizes he’s inadvertently skipped school, which means _she_ skipped school… to help him. To make sure he’s okay.

That, more than anything, propels him to nod, once.

“O-Okay.”

“Okay?” MJ’s whole body slumps in relief. “Thank god.”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter tries to ignore the creeping anxiety that’s ever-present in his life, the one that makes him bring a bagged lunch every day, the one that has him counting pennies before buying groceries, the one that propelled him to spend two hours walking across the bridge, injured and scared, instead of using a payphone to call for help.

_Hospitals are expensive._

And with eighteen dollars to his name, he’s not sure how he’s going to afford this.

 

* * *

 

First, they call the school from his home phone. MJ’s Aunt May impersonation is spot-on, and no one questions her flustered apology about how Peter has the flu, and she’s _so_ sorry she didn’t call sooner, but the morning just got away from her.

Next, Peter uses her cell to call Aunt May. That conversation is a bit harder, because if May hears any strain in his voice, anything at all, she’ll know something’s wrong. But he pretends he’s frazzled because it’s passing period, and tells her he dropped his phone in the toilet and _don’t worry, he’ll fix it_ , but it means she’ll have to call MJ if she needs him.

Aunt May sounds disappointed, which mirrors Peter’s thoughts exactly: phones are also expensive, and she saved for months to buy him this one for his birthday. (He didn’t tell her he’d wanted a StarkPhone, because those are double the price just for the name. Maybe in a few years, when he’s working himself.)

MJ plucks the phone from his hand just as he’s saying goodbye, turns it to speakerphone, and adds, “Oh, Aunt May! Peter and Harry and I have a huge physics project due on Friday, and he suggested a sleepover at his place tonight to get it done early. Can Peter come too?”

It takes Peter a minute to catch on, but then he realizes it. This injury is so severe that he won’t be able to hide it tonight, so she’s buying time. With a doctor’s intervention and his healing powers, she’s betting on him being functional this time tomorrow.

God, he hopes that’s true.

Aunt May sounds dubious. “It’s a school night.”

Peter forces his voice to remain casual. Just another teen begging for more freedom. “But Aunt May, it’s worth a quarter of our grade, and Harry’s place has all the tools to do it. I promise I’ll be asleep by ten!”

He sits perfectly still, because if he moves even an inch, his shoulder will flare back to life and he’ll be crippled with pain. Even MJ seems to hold her breath, but then Aunt May heaves a sigh. “You call me when you get there, all right? And text me before school tomorrow so I know you got up in time.”

Ironic, considering today. Peter nods, even though she can’t see it. “Y-Yeah! Of course. Love you.”

"Love you too, Peter."

“Bye, Aunt May,” MJ says, and hangs up.

  

* * *

 

So, they go to the hospital. But nothing’s that easy. Aunt May works at the one near his house, and she’d know if her nephew checked into the emergency room. Instead, MJ fashions a sling out of an old sweatshirt, and they take the subway into the city, to a hospital out of May’s network.

Every time the train screeches to a halt, it jostles Peter’s wound, and he thinks he’s going to throw up or faint—or both. MJ tries to keep him occupied with other things, quizzing him on their next history exam or telling him about politics in the Middle East, but it barely works.

By the time they reach St. Martins, Peter is, and he quotes, “a gross, green color.”

“Wow. With friends like you,” Peter mumbles.

MJ offers a dazzling smile that hides the tense lines around her lips, and practically carries him through the sliding doors.

It’s midday in the middle of New York, so of course the emergency room is bustling. But the nurses take one look at his sickly pallor and usher him into a bed, hidden from twelve others by a flimsy curtain.

He hits the mattress hard, swallowing a moan.

“Told you you needed a hospital.” MJ crosses her arms.

Peter can’t even refute it. The pain is so acute that he swears he can feel his muscles stitching together around shards of bone, amidst a throbbing that makes him wince every few seconds. His head has started pounding in time, which could just be exhaustion, or could be the fact that he hasn’t eaten today.

MJ presses her lips together and sinks into the chair beside him.

They don’t speak.

 

* * *

  

Surgery. The doctor immediately identifies it as acromioclavicular joint separation, then tacks on, “Stage five, at least,” with a worried pinch of his eyebrows. Peter swallows past the horror of what’s about to happen and croaks out the one question he hasn’t dared to ask yet.

“H-How much will that cost?”

“Son, in your position, it doesn’t matter,” the doctor replies gravely.

MJ squeezes his hand and leans next to his ear. Her family isn’t much better off than his, so she understands the gravity of what’s happening. But she still says, “Pete. It’s okay. You’re a smart guy; we’ll figure this out later, after you’re better.”

“I’ll heal on my own,” he whispers back.

The doctor overhears, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Usually, that’d be correct. But this is acute.” He gestures towards the x-rays they took an hour ago, towards the clear break between his clavicle and his shoulder blade. “It’s a common injury, but yours might be the worst I’ve seen in years. I can’t even send you home like this.” Now he raises an eyebrow. “Where are your parents? I’m going to need to talk to them.”

Peter’s mouth goes dry. “They’re d-dead, sir.”

The doctor frowns. “A guardian?”

Peter and MJ exchange a glance, but she’s at a loss. They didn’t think this far ahead. Well, that’s not necessarily true; he knew it was a possibility that they couldn’t treat him without a guardian’s signature. But Peter just hoped a doctor would pop his shoulder back into place and they’d wave goodbye.

Not this. Not surgery.  

“My aunt is my guardian. B-But you can’t call her. She’s working right now.”

The doctor raises an eyebrow, pausing for a moment. “Son, does your aunt hurt you? Nothing you say will leave this space.”

The shock of it almost makes Peter laugh, except that they’re in a hospital and this is serious.

MJ doesn’t have the same qualms. She snorts, pointed and loud, as Peter splutters, “What? _No_! Aunt May would never—” his face goes red, and he sinks into the pillow. “I just—we don’t have a lot of money. And after my parents… she worries. Isn’t there some way we can handle this alone?”

The doctor purses his lips. “Perform surgery on a sixteen-year-old without adult consent? I’m afraid not.”

Suddenly, leaving May’s hospital to traipse across the city seems like a pretty stupid idea.

MJ heaves a sigh and pulls out her cell phone.

 

* * *

  

Aunt May is there in another hour, storming into the room like a hurricane. She already found the doctor, had a whole conversation, which Peter heard with super-powered clarity before May throws the blue curtain aside. Behind her, the doctor chuckles and continues on his way, leaving Peter to her wrath. 

“Peter Benjamin Parker. You had better have a _damn_ good explanation for this. Ditching class? Lying to me? How did this happen? What did you get _up_ to today?” May’s face is red, eyes flashing, but Peter doesn’t miss the way she hurries to his bedside, presses a hand to his forehead.

He’s still burning up. His healing sense must not have a clue how to fix this, because his arm feels exactly the same as it did last night, when he was sinking into the river.

Luckily, he left out the river when he told MJ the story. Then she might be yelling right alongside May. 

Now he clears his throat, tries to cover his tracks. “It’s—ah—”

“It’s my fault,” MJ says, and her voice trembles just enough to make it convincing. “I thought it’d be fun to ditch class, so we came into the city and made a day of it. But some biker slammed into him when we were crossing the street, and he was really hurt, and we didn’t know what to do, and—and I’m really sorry, Aunt May.”

May sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “That was a very irresponsible thing to do, Mary Jane. I expected better of you.”

“Don’t blame her,” Peter begs. He’s exhausted and dizzy and weak, but it’s important MJ—who’s just been trying to help—doesn’t take the fall for this. “It wasn’t her idea. It was mine.”

MJ opens her mouth to argue, but Aunt May holds up a hand. “Okay, okay. I get it.” She looks between them, then sighs. “Well, what’s done is done. Let’s focus on what’s left to do, hmm? Mary Jane, honey, you can go home. I’ll handle this.”

“But—” MJ cuts herself off, biting her lower lip. “I’d rather stay, Aunt May.”

“It’s almost 5pm, and I’m sure your parents will be worried if you don’t get home soon,” May says, pointedly. MJ hangs her head and gathers her things, but as she moves for the door, Aunt May puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. “Thank you for bringing him to a hospital. You did good.”

The words are whispered, barely audible, but Peter hears them clear as day. MJ smiles slightly, then waves at Peter and slips past the curtain.

Peter clears his throat. “So, um… Is ‘I’m sorry’ enough?”

“It will be, as long as you repeat it every day for the rest of sophomore year, which is how long you’re grounded,” Aunt May replies, curtly.

Well. Peter deserves that.

 

* * *

 

After the surgery, his shoulder heals in two days. It’s a bright relief, moving his left hand again without crippling pain, stretching his shoulders without the fog of fear. Of course, Aunt May can’t know he heals that fast, so he fakes a slow recovery for another month.

MJ brings flowers, picked herself from the vacant lot near the school, and hands them to Aunt May instead of Peter. May smiles and hugs her and things go back to normal soon enough.

Until the bill comes in the mail.

It’s addressed to Peter Parker, but May whisks the paper away. He catches a glimpse of the total—nearly $10,000 with the hospital stay, emergency room diagnosis, and surgery—before she folds it up, nice and neat.

“Aunt May, I should be the one to pay—” Peter begins, feeling lightheaded in a way he hasn’t since that night by the river.

“Absolutely not, Peter.” She waves a hand and strolls into the kitchen, but his eyesight’s a lot better now. He doesn’t miss how sweat beads on her forehead, how she wrings her hands when she thinks he’s not looking.

His stomach churns.

From then on, he’s a lot more careful about patrolling.

And a lot pickier about what brings him to a hospital.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I'm working my way through the prequel novel now (HUGE THANKS TO THOSE OF YOU WHO RECOMMENDED IT!! Omg I'm so ashamed I didn't even know it existed, but I am LOVING IT so far. O.O), so please forgive any non-canon things here that are disproved there. (also NO SPOILERS :D :D :D )
> 
> 2) I had a VERY hard time rationalizing why Peter would go to the hospital for this particular injury. I enlarged the picture and googled what it was and found that it's super common and mostly, it heals on its own. So this kind of seemed like poor planning on the game developers' part? Hopefully I tweaked it enough that it makes sense for this story, though. XD
> 
> 3) I figured MJ wouldn't be so suave here, since she's a baby Nurse MJ right now. So I had a bit of fun making her more vulnerable here!
> 
> 4) I have no idea if a hospital would even take x-rays of a kid without their guardian's permission, but I'm going with yes, if it's a dire situation? Who knows! 
> 
> 5) I know the bill in the game said 2013, and a total of $2300 or something, but I'm imagining this happened far earlier, and by the time 2013 rolls around, he only has $2300 left to pay. Our health care system, ladies and gentlemen. >.>
> 
> 5) MJ is still my spirit animal, baby Nurse or no. That is all.


End file.
